


Ghosts

by The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Anxiety, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary gets a message from Sherlock and goes to visit him in hospital. But what's waiting behind the door?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a sequel to "Unreal" or can stand alone.

Mary’s footsteps echoed in the corridors of the hospital. In her mind, the sounds were drowned out by other echoes that nobody else could hear. Voices, screams, explosions. The deafening silence after the fatal shot, a house of mirrors with infinite reflections of pain and death. The hall turned into a tunnel with darkness at its end. She shivered and forced herself to keep going.

Her hands were clenched into fists as she stopped in front of the door to Sherlock’s room. Nervously, she glanced back down into the hall and the staircase. There was no one to be seen.  
In a ridiculously random thought it occurred to her that she hadn’t brought a present. Flowers, a book, biscuits from Mrs Hudson’s preferred store – something he liked. People did that _(sentiment)_ when they visited someone in hospital. It was expected, almost necessary... A perfect excuse to leave, to go back home and postpone the visit to… someday.  
She turned her back to the door, stood still for a minute, and considered leaving. If she did it, she wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t be able to force herself to enter the hospital again. Next time she’d only give in to her instincts and flee.

Her hand found its way into her trouser pocket, and she took out her phone to have another look at the two text messages she’d received the day before.

_Drugged and a little bit bored to answer your unspoken question about how I feel_

_Thought you would visit me once in a while Mary_

The number was definitely Sherlock’s, but the message seemed suspicious, possibly a trap.  
She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d collapsed in 221b _(the average arrival time for a London ambulance is eight minutes),_ when they’d taken him back to the hospital. She wasn’t sure if using a phone to send texts was allowed in here (she’d switched hers to aeroplane mode). She didn’t even know if it was possible that he’d typed the message himself, in his current state.  
Her heart said she wanted to see him, to apologize, no matter what he would say. He couldn’t harm her physically, even if he wanted to, he was too weak.  
Her mind, however, warned her that perhaps he wasn’t alone. There could be somebody else, another enemy. A ghost of the past, waiting to attack her in the small room where nobody would help her.

Not that she would get help in other places, from anyone.

She knocked on the door, and opened it slowly and cautiously.

“Oh, hello!” said a voice, the moment Mary stepped into the room. It was not Sherlock’s voice – rather a smooth feminine one. “I almost hoped I would see you here, but I didn’t think you would come.”

Mary stopped dead in her tracks. Reflexively, she stepped back a little, so she could use the door as a shield if necessary. Her thoughts were in a whirl, failing to process what was in front of her eyes.  
A few feet away from Sherlock’s bed, as if she’d materialized out of nowhere, stood Irene Adler. Her hair was a little shorter than it used to be, but apart from that she hadn’t changed at all.

 _It was her who sent the text,_ said an analytic voice inside Mary’s head. _Shouldn’t you have known?_

She shook her head, wanted the voice to shut up, but it kept on talking, now malicious and cruel.

_She’s changed sides. If she’s ever been on your side at all. You trusted her. You were wrong. She’ll kill you, or kidnap you and have you executed._

A terrifying scene played out in her mind, as clear as a hallucination. She saw herself drawing her gun. A well-aimed shot, and Irene would sink to the floor, bleeding from the gunshot wound, bleeding from her mouth. Mary would curse and shout at her, demanding information about the people who were behind all this. Irene would say the names, and Mary would have to kill her, or watch Irene die under her hands. Mary’s own heart would shatter into a thousand pieces, and the last remains of her sanity would crumble. She would stand up and spread the dark, razor-sharp wings of a demon. Anyone who’d ever stood in her way would be killed, without regards, without remorse. Codenames wouldn’t be necessary anymore. Her lonely, painful, pointless life was over. She would just _be,_ and take other’s lives until somebody finally stopped her.

That was what she saw, as if it was already happening. She didn’t even notice how the world turned black and her field of vision narrowed down to a small circle. In the end there were only Irene’s eyes, full of concern, and the distant sound of her voice.

“Mary, what’s wrong? Oh, for God’s sake, don’t –“

She felt more than she saw that Irene caught her, held her, just before Mary lost consciousness.

 

For an indeterminable timespan, she swam in a strange grey ocean, looking for light. When she made it back to the surface, she found herself sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs next to Sherlock’s bed, and Irene kneeling in front of her.

“Oh, finally. You’ve woken up,” Irene said with a smirk. “What have I done that everyone tries to sleep through my presence today? First it’s him” – she nodded towards the bed – “and now you, too.”

“I’m… sorry,” Mary managed to say between breaths. The air filled her lungs like fire, hot and painful, as if her chest was about to burst, and still not quite enough.

“Help me,” she gasped. “Irene… I’m suffocating.”

“Oh, no.” The dominatrix tutted softly.

Comforting had never been Irene’s strong suit, but the slight annoyance in her voice was exactly what Mary needed, because it convinced her that this was really Irene. This was happening. She was here.

“You’re just hyperventilating, Mary. I’ve seen the symptoms often enough. You’ll survive, don’t worry.”

“How did… Why…”

Mary shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, while Irene stared expectantly into her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Mary heard herself saying again.  
A quick glance at Sherlock confirmed that the detective was still deep in his drug-induced slumber – fortunately. Mary knew that she was going to cry and probably break down, and it was bad enough if one person witnessed it.  
“I got a text,” she explained in a shaking voice. “From Sherlock. At least I think it was from him. So I came here… But I wasn’t sure if it was a trap! And… And then I saw you. _You._ After all that happened… I thought you were… I thought I would have to –“

“Shhh.” Irene got back on her feet, and gently pressed her finger to Mary’s lips to stop her from stuttering. “It was probably a panic attack. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, it seems. Try to focus on something normal. Say where we are and what time it is.”

“It’s half past ten in the morning. On a Tuesday,” Mary panted.

It seemed to help. The nightmare-daydream she’d just gone through finally let her out of its claws, and she started to feel a little more like herself.  
Of course she hadn’t shot Irene, hadn’t lost control. The gun she’d wanted to use wasn’t even there, she’d left it at home. Irene was not an enemy. There was nothing to be scared of.

“We’re in the hospital,” she continued. “Because Sherlock –.”

When she realized where this train of thought was going, she nearly screamed.

“Nothing’s normal anymore,” she cried, slamming her fists on her thighs in frustration. “It's over for me. Everything's over. John has left me, and Sherlock is only here because I… I shot him,” she blurted out.  
“They’ll never forgive me. I don’t know why _you’re_ here, Irene. I don’t know whose list I’m still on, how many people want me dead, I’m pregnant, _I can’t take it anymore –“_

“Wait, wait, wait,” Irene interrupted her. _“You_ shot him?”

The Woman’s eyes widened in disbelief when Mary nodded, but then she glanced away and covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“You quit your assassin career for a quiet life in London, and the first thing you do is shoot Sherlock Holmes?”

“It’s not funny,” Mary scolded her – but Irene’s reaction was so much the opposite of what she’d expected, so surreal, that she couldn’t help but giggle along.

“I’m sorry, I know,” Irene apologized. “How did it happen? Was it an accident, or…?”

“Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

The name alone was enough to stop them both from laughing.

“That blackmailing asshole?” Irene gasped. Mary wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen actual terror on Irene’s face before, but now it was definitely there.

“Yes, that’s what he is, and now he’s blackmailing me, and several other, totally innocent people,” Mary explained, and went on to describe what had happened in CAM’s office.

“I knew Sherlock was investigating a case related to Magnussen, but who would’ve expected him to break into his office exactly at the same time as I did? It was the most stupid coincidence I’d ever seen. And then things escalated.”

She produced a tissue from her jeans pocket, and dried her eyes with a shaking hand.

“I called an ambulance for Sherlock, so he would get help as soon as possible, but still it nearly went wrong. He was in surgery for hours. They had to restart his heart. Twice. That was not what I wanted…”

She choked up and had to pause for a moment.

“And he told John anyway,” she continued, fumbling with the Kleenex. “Of course. I should have known. I only made everything so much worse, it was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made.”

“Indeed, love, it was stupid. But you can’t take it back now, can you?” Irene said.

She gave Mary’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“So – and you’re pregnant? Really?”

This change of topic was surely meant to distract Mary from her worries, but the mention of her pregnancy felt like a bittersweet stab to her heart.

“Yes, I am,” she said neutrally, struggling to regain her composure.  
“I don’t know what to do, Irene,” she added. It sounded and felt like admitting defeat. “I wanted a normal life, where I could have a home and feel safe. I wanted to be able to trust the people I live and work with – and look what happened.”

“Oh, don’t give up, Annika.”

The way Irene said Mary’s old name, an echo of times and places that were far away now, sent a shiver down her spine.

“You’ve made it this far,” Irene continued. “Although nobody believed you could survive a single day. Now, if Doctor Watson breaks up with you, fine. You don’t need him. If your friends don’t want to help you, they’re not worth your time either. Go somewhere else, make a new start again. And stop crying, it’s not like you.”

Mary snorted. Of course Irene would think that way, this was her idea of surviving. It used to be Mary’s as well, a long time ago, before everything in her life had gone to hell.

“But if you ever need help,” Irene threw in as if she’d read Mary’s thoughts in her eyes. “Then I’ll find you, and I’ll be there. Give me your phone.”

She held out her hand. Mary did as she was told, and Irene began to type something.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m saving a number in your contacts,” Irene answered. “Not my own, but you can send a message if you need me. I’ll find you.”

What a heart-warming thought. What an impossible promise. Mary didn’t believe for a second that Irene would actually come and help her if she was in trouble.  
On the other hand – wasn’t that exactly what had just happened?

“Do you want me to call a doctor for you?” Irene interrupted Mary’s thoughts as she handed her phone back.  
“You’re pregnant, and you just had a panic attack and fainted,” she went on. “Someone should have a look at you and check if the baby’s alright.”

“No, please don’t.” Mary shook her head. She didn’t want to see anyone right now. “I feel alright at the moment, and I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon anyway.”

“Fine. But you have to tell the doctor about it, okay? Not only because of the pregnancy, but also in case you need professional help.”

That sounded reasonable, and Mary thought if she just continued like this – keeping appointments and taking care of herself – there was a chance that she could start to feel in control of her life again. Go back to normal. Hope.

The two women stared at each other wordlessly. For a moment, Mary thought Irene would embrace her and hold her again, and perhaps they would even kiss.

“Look,” Irene said suddenly, and the moment was over. She turned and gestured towards the other side of the room. “I brought a rose for Mr Holmes.”

Mildly surprised and curious, Mary pushed herself up from the chair. There was a card with a “W” printed on it leaning against the vase. She picked it up and flipped it open to see what was written inside. It turned out there was nothing written at all – only a kiss mark in red lipstick.

“Oh, what’s this?” she teased. “Do you want me to get jealous?”

There was no reply. When Mary turned around, the room was empty besides the still sleeping detective. She ran to the door and yanked it open, but even outside on the corridor, Irene was nowhere to be seen. If there hadn’t been the new contact on her phone to prove what had happened, Mary would have started to wonder of it had all been a hallucination.

“If you need me,” she murmured, and smiled absently. As if Irene couldn’t have worded it any other way. “If you need _me.”_

 

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mary whispered a few seconds later. She’d pulled the chair up to the bed to sit by his side. He looked fragile between all the tubes and beeping machines. Mary felt an overwhelming need to hug him; she couldn’t tell if it was because she wanted to comfort him, or because she needed comfort herself.

She reached out and stroked through his hair, brushing the curls away from his forehead. It was a soft touch, not meant to wake him, but he opened his eyes immediately.

“Mary.” His words were surprisingly clear for someone who’d just woken up. “How are you?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

He lifted his head a little to look into her eyes. After losing all her self-control in front of Irene, Mary could only hope that she appeared calm and collected enough now _(remind you of anyone? A façade.)_ Sherlock seemed to have difficulties focusing. There was a short silence while he blinked very slowly a couple of times, then he cleared his throat.

“It’s funny,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I thought I’d seen Irene Adler here. But that was probably a dream, wasn’t it?”

His gaze became piercing, and Mary sat up stiffly. It was frightening not to be sure how much Sherlock knew, and how far she could trust him. Perhaps he was even informed about her past relationship with Irene.

“Funny. I thought I saw her, too,” she answered, trying to sound light-hearted. “But yes, it was probably a dream.”

The detective nodded. Mary couldn’t tell at all what he was thinking, but his expression was friendly, and he didn’t ask any further questions.

“The Woman,” he said. A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Miss Adler is much cleverer than you and me.”

He let his head sink back into the pillow. Just when Mary began to think he’d fallen asleep, he opened his eyes again and glanced up at her.

“Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Come here.” He put his hand clumsily on her shoulder, and pulled her a little closer to himself.  
It was almost the hug she’d needed.


End file.
